


The Spider, The Fly, The Emerald Web

by Varynova



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, All Porn Is Plot If You Believe Aristotle, Alternate Universe, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Humanstuck, Light Bondage, Nonbinary Jade Harley, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Sexual Content, Top Jade Harley (Duh), Trans Character, Vibrators, Vriska Has Boundary Issues But It Ends Up Okay, accidental misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varynova/pseuds/Varynova
Summary: Vriska Serket cuts a drunken swath through the tiny, close-knit population of the lesbian bars of Seattle, leaving a trail of stunned ex-lovers and affronted girlfriends-of-same in her uncaring wake. But one well-built and formidable somebody refuses to take her shit, and it knocks her onto her back... In more ways than even she saw coming.But aren’t those just the loveliest encounters?
Relationships: Jade Harley/Vriska Serket
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're only here for the sex scene, it's in chapter 4. It's okay, you have my permission.

####  The Samsons When They Revenging (IDK I Never Read Milton)

#####  OR 

####  The Unbearable Continuity of Bourbon and Forelimbs

##### OR

# The Spider, The Fly, The Emerald Web

* * *

The streetlight outside my window is a pale moon against the starless sky. Last night's drizzle has faded into memory, but trails of raindrops linger on my windowpane, drawn by the fingers of the wind. Lines of frost spider up from the sill, forming a prism of ice that fractalizes the light. Crystalline symmetries spin and dance through the glass. What's the phrase-- maybe it was an album title? It stuck in my mind years ago. Oh, well.

It's four A.M., I'm in bed next to somebody whose name I still haven't forgotten, and my thoughts only form eyeroll-worthy poetry. I tug the blankets up past my knees, over my chest and around my shoulders. It's been an unseasonably warm November, only kissing freezing for long enough each night to keep the first snow from disappearing. The resulting banks of gray slush give up their luster to the gentle ignominy of each new day's melt, saved only by the nightly cold. Each morning, all that's visible from my apartment window is a decaying world slumbering under a quarter-inch of ice. Every day the pockmarks grow wider, deeper.

Damn Seattle rain.

_Passion Leaves a Trace_. That was it. Heh, 2007.

I can feel the dull heat radiating off your body, inches away from mine, buried in two comforters and rolled away from me to the wall. Usually, when I wake up at this hour, anybody spending the night has already crept out. But here you lay, facedown in my spare pillows. The sheets mound just where your tail lifts them, soft metronome wag a reminder of your presence on my bare leg. I thought your white, pointed ears would stay perked, but the tufts inside splay against the pillows as they droop on the bed. At their base, fluff gives way to curling mounds of hair massed up into the headboard to keep it out of your face while you sleep.

Your shoulderblades rise and fall with muted snores, soft curve of your neck moving with each breath and the twitch of your jaw. With two fingers, I touch my own neck searching for that spot, just where it meets the chin. It's tender, and probably still reddish from the marks you drove into it last night. I really asked you to do that, didn't I? And if I wanted it once, and you were willing to comply, grant my desires, well-- my shoulders shiver, and I rebury them in the sheets, easing back down to lay flat once more.

I urged my skin into your mouth. When you heard the sharp inhale that followed, you paused, drew back, and asked if it was too much; I told you that I loved it. I hope the little red lines still dance down my back where you dug your nails in, testing at first, then with enough pressure to finally shower the insides of my eyelids in sparks like a sword on a whetstone.

The way you ran your teeth down my breast, careful lips following across its pliant surface, was bound to fade quickly, even as it drove me to arch my back, sending the beads of sweat collected there racing down against bare flesh.

Even the ropemarks around my wrists are gone. I wondered, when I struggled during the rest of your careful torments, if when you slackened the knot holding my fists to the coil of rope, I'd be left to rub down smart red burns on my own.

But you remembered. You put a thumb to my palms at regular intervals, asked me if they were numb, or cold.

Nobody's ever checked if I was okay before.

Every time I tried this alone, I winced as the scratchy, fraying hemp-- the only kind available for impulse-purchase at the hardware store-- separated from my skin, and muttered that I’d never do _that_ again. But I bet that in your hands even shackles would feel like silk scarves.

All that was left was a gentle string of dimples, barely darkened, to remind me of the way it hugged my hands together and bound me to your whims. So comfortable that I wondered how it hadn't been around them my whole life.

Each mark is a different thrill. Each sensation is drawn onto the body. They all fade, but I remember every one.

Your clothes are still piled in the low chair. What about that tight maxiskirt made me dream of this moment, when I saw you in the bar? Its black, gentle waves hugged every contour of your hips and ankles like rubber coils that shimmered and shifted with each broad step you took, purposeful, intended. Your movements were so precise that when it stretched taut across your knees, it seemed to store that energy, feed back into your stride and impel you forward.

I know nothing about you. Once we left the bar, we barely even spoke before you pressed your lips to mine, and nothing else mattered.

I keep turning you over in my mind like a coin, straining to fill in the gaps: I bet you season your own cast iron pans. I bet you know the way you best love to be kissed, and if we just had time I bet you would be happy to teach me. I bet you know the difference between perennials and annuals, and I bet you dream of a home in the countryside. I bet you have a sourdough starter, and that sourdough starter has a name that you gave it. I bet you're thinking about what color fence you'll need for that big yard where you'll keep all your huge dogs and what size Subaru they'll all fit in.

I bet you'll be gone when I wake up again.


	2. Chapter 2

Let's rewind.

6:53 PM PST, THE NIGHT BEFORE.

I open the car door, and shrug my collar up against the cold rain. My boot falls against the curb, crunching into grimy snow. I head across the empty street, flash ID to the blueeyed girl just outside the bar. When she opens the door, the thumping bass crests my whole body. It had been just audible outside, but it already shakes my ribs still standing on the sidewalk, almost loud enough to crowd out thought.

Would be nice. Oh, well. I step inside.

A Sunday night where Vriska Serket doesn't need to get laid is like a Sunday where she doesn't need to get drunk, and here's the place to do either. I hand my jacket to the girl at coat-check and head over to my customary spot.

This is the only bar worth going to on Cap Hill anymore. They keep it dark, and it smells like the pine air freshener they use to ward off the must of sweat instead of lavender, rosewater, or girly shit like that. And they play good country. Well, they used to, until the other good bars shut down and it got completely overrun by crowds of flighty undergrad girls trying to escape the trendy hellholes over in Belltown. Or worse, University, with its campus bars squatting up frat row like toads with fake marble columns. Tonight it's pretty empty, though that might be because it's only just before seven.

The moment I sit down the bartender hands me my favorite drink. I give the glass a swirl, and slowly draw the dark liquid over my tongue; I can taste the grenadine, the maraschino syrup, bottom-shelf vodka, the tinge of ginger and lime. Just because they're the least bad bar left doesn't mean they can mix a drink worth a damn, though. Hell, the first time I ordered it the bartender made the mistake of calling it an 'adult Shirley Temple'. Heh, I practically throttled her for that.

No, wait-- that was later on.

Now, they call it the Spider8ite, because somebody noticed the sexy way the red dribbles off the points of my canines and back into the glass as I stoop over it. It might have a different name on the chalkboard overhead, but they know.

My ex introduced me to this bar, and the drink, too. She always let the booze mingle with her lipstick, and made a show of licking it off slowly like she was drinking blood. Still makes me laugh.

She was a poser, no matter how dark her lipstick, the little black dresses, the blocky haircuts swooped over her brow in stiff, gothic eaves. She wanted to show the world that she was fucking cold, but couldn't stand the thought that it would make her more like me. Grubby, terse, rough. But she was a cuddleslut. Just wished she could fit in with a real punk.

What would she think of what I've been up to since then?

Ugh.

My life is perfect! I'm just sitting in an empty bar waiting to catch somebody's eye, drinking the same old drink, doing my best to ignore the bass-heavy thump in my chest from this trendy-ass electrodance music...

Actually, I lied. I fucking hate this place. If I didn’t have my eye on the woman working next shift I wouldn’t fucking bother.

\--

Two or three songs later, I catch my breath. I guess I've been staring at nothing, trying to burn a hole in the biggest, darkest knot in the bartop, but I shake out of it. In the corner of my eye, I notice the bartender slump her shoulders, thinking she's not observed.

She's one of my previous conquests, by the name of Rose, a short blonde with a master's in library science and no ass to speak of. She also happens to be dating that other ex I mentioned. She checks her phone, and I see the way the corners of her lips turn down as they pull back.

"Replacement's not here yet, huh?"

She ignores me. But I know the girl I was planning to shack up with picked up the next shift because I snuck a peek at the whiteboard in the back room a few days ago.

I'm not desperate, or anything! I just don't want to go to all the effort of coming in here and having to talk to people for no reason.

A couple of the usual boozehounds filter in, the pathetic sort of fucking losers who have nothing better to do than start drinking at 8. Rose pulls two pint glasses from a rack to fill for some femme little college couple who flounce up to the bar together.

My tongue slides across my gums. She collects their cash, doles out change. Then I try again, because nobody's allowed to ignore me for long. "Pullin' a double shift, huh?"

She doesn't look in my direction, doesn't even pull her eyes off the muted tv in the corner playing the women's Premier League finals. Her hand rises up past her neckline, and she rolls the top button of her flannel shirt between thumb and forefinger.

"Fuck off, Vriska. She’s not coming in tonight."

I scoff. As if.

\--

I'd hate to let Rose have the last laugh, so I stay glued to the barstool as the evening drags along. It's a boring fucking night, but as I stretch my drink out, the bar gets crowded with enough sweaty clubber girls that they start to horn in on my corner. Most nights, people are smart enough to give me a wide berth when they order, so I've only ever had to bite a few arms off. One girl stands too close, so I coil my neck in her direction and give a charismatic warning hiss. She jumps. Over all the noise I think I hear Rose offer her an apology, so I take a sip with a smirk. Nobody touches Vriska Serket.

Thankfully, Rose doesn’t have time to throw a judging glare before another somebody bumps me hard enough to practically knock me off the stool. She shoves up to the bar, past my legs carefully dykespread across the footrail, and far enough inside my bubble that I can smell the engine oil and worn leatherette on her clothes rather than the usual froof and primp. I crane to look at the jockish woman intruding into my space, and I tense like a spring to lash and growl, but before I can bare my teeth her eyes, looming and green, catch mine. I flinch as her glance crawls down my spine like a cube of ice. In my periphery, Rose chokes down a smug snicker to take this girl’s drink order, but can’t contain the schadenfreude wrinkling the bridge of her nose.

The interloper leans over the bar to deliver her order. As she waits, she jogs from one foot to the other-- a cloyingly cutesy gesture, and her pair of dogears flick and scan the room. She’s wearing a black skirt, the hem of which is accented with buttons down to the floor. Wow, when she shifts her hip, the fabric of it bunches, and I catch a flash of a black combat boot. With more than a little heel, too, maybe two inches.

Just watching her is exhausting, excited energy visible in the toned shoulder muscles revealed by a mauve sleeveless turtleneck. I bet she could just dance all fucking night, huh. She's smiling like crazy, too-- I'm sure it was just to catch Rosie's eye, get her fucking drink quicker. Dunno why she'd bother keeping it up, though, since she clearly got what she fucking wanted. God, she’s tall. Even stooped over like that.

Way taller than me.

And her hair's just huge, isn't it? It's everywhere. It takes up the whole space around her body, whorling out from her back and distorting her silhouette. The wake of a boat, eddying in midnight water.

That skirt, though- it catches the light in little folds, like matte paint rolling across a fingertip. When she moves, it stretches, constrains itself to her skin.

Something about this series of thoughts-- about her height, her hair, her clothes-- makes my scalp tingle. I don’t like it.

I bet the way she's hovering over the bar would really emphasize her legs. God, Vriska, stop staring at her butt-- even as the tail poking from under the buttonstrap in the back carves a lazy arc perilously close to my head.

Rose hands her a highball glass full of dark liquid on the rocks, and she straightens up. I’d hate to miss my chance to assert my dominance, but when I open my mouth to snarl something- I don’t know what, doesn’t matter- she just shakes her head, cutting me off.

“Don’t bother.” She struts away.

Fuck. As I whip back around to make it clear to the world that that didn’t just happen, Rose bends forward, and shows me all her teeth in a rare unguarded grin.

Double fuck.

"That worked out well,” she taunts. “For both our sakes let's hope Terezi still comes in tonight, hmm?"

I sniff, turning all of my attention back to the ice in the bottom of my empty glass. But she persists.

"I saw you eyefucking that girl. Doesn't seem like your usual type, though. Too classy-- she was capable of stringing together whole sentences, and had a very pretty smile. Plus-- I don’t know if you could see it from there, but-- an ass like Greek statuary." Rose rubs her buzzed head, eyeballing my reaction. "Oh, but you already made an amazing first impression, didn't you? Like a cornered rattlesnake. You're a big woman, Vriska Serket, aren't you? Gotta prove it to everybody."

The unspent tension sloughs out of my neck, cold shower of Rose’s derision leaving only loathing behind, because she’s right-- not even like a rattlesnake, like a rodent. Despite my gnashing, I know I’ll never bite.

This is why we were a terrible lay. This is why we broke up after 'dating' for one week. More important than her constant attempts to rile and provoke and prod (which I couldn't give less of a fuck about!) she just never fucking shuts up. (That, and the constant bickering over who would get to top.)

My eyes fall, but I have no place to run. All I can hope is that Rose remembers she’s supposed to be tending bar. My head swims, dull ache setting in as the edge of the alcohol fades.

"Shut up, Rose," I say, at my usual standard of eloquence. I don’t even have the energy to pretend I’m above her needling, on a shitty night like tonight.

"Unless you were planning on changing your tune, I might see if one Daphne Callipyge was amenable to an evening shared between Kanaya and myself.” I can feel the fire relighting in my gut as she yammers, so I narrow my eyes, daring her wordlessly to stop talking. She doesn’t, of course, because she's gotten carried away, like usual. “Y'know what'd be _really_ funny? If you were too stubborn to give up on Terezi, and I took that piece of coccyx home while you dragged yourself out empty-handed, not unlike every other night."

"Are you just trying to piss me off, now?" I can feel each breath seethe between gritted teeth, and my hand under the bar clenches.

"Is it working?"

"Oh, I'll say!"

I stand, trying to broaden my shoulders, giving Rose a second to rethink pushing my buttons before she forces me to do something that’ll lose me the only bar I give a shit about. But she cocks her head, and reaches out, grabbing me by the shirt.

"Well, you heard me. I'm gonna fuck that girl tonight, and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it."

Lucky for Rose, before I can bring a fist to bear a voice rings out behind me. "Fucking excuse me!?"

Rose's eyes twitch wider for an instant, and her grip slackens. It's doggirl-- when my head spins to look, I see her arms at her hips, and hear the unimpressed growl lying beneath her voice, replacing its previous pitched lilt.

Rose opens her mouth to speak, but whoever this girl is, she jabs a nail through the air towards her. Rose is smart enough, or cowed enough, to not interrupt.

"How dare you talk about me like that!? What would your mother think, christ! I laughed off the comment about my ass, but--"

"You _heard_ that?" I’m clearly neither, voice incredulous.

"Y'think the ears are for show? C'mon, I'm used to some level of this shit outta straight boys in bars, but why do you think I come to a place like this? Show some fucking respect!"

Rose releases her grip on my chest, just in time to feel my heart starting to strain against my ribcage, threatening to explode. That tingle at my crown’s returned. Who is she!? Nobody's ever gotten away with talking to Rose like this, but the blonde behind the bar backs down.

Well, fuck. Gotta think fast-- if I’m lucky I can escape with my dignity mostly intact and my ass unbeat if I throw the first punch while she’s distracted-

Or.

Can I still wrangle this to my advantage, try to get at least a name and number out of the deal?

Despite my desire to see it all go down, despite the ache in my bones begging me to find out more about her, I turn away from the bar, prepared to not even get the last word in what’s clearly no longer _my_ most embarrassing moment of the night.

“You gonna pay for that drink, Vriska?” Rose’s words cut over the music. I don’t even break stride. The girl at coat check stands up from her chair, but she clearly saw enough of Rose’s little tantrum that she just shrugs, and hands me my coat.

“That’s fine!,” Rose hollers. “You’re fuckin’ banned! Get the fuck out!”

Great. The heavy oak door creaks open and I trudge out into the wet night.


	3. Chapter 3

I grumble up at the black sky and hike towards the campus parking lot a block over. My neck shrinks in a futile attempt to keep the water out of my lapels, but without someplace pressing to be there’s not exactly a reason to pick up my pace. Guess I’ll go home? Should be able to scrounge up at least a little booze from a squirreled away stash, hopefully enough to have a good time.

Before I can daydream about exactly how smashed I’d need to get to forget all this happened, though, a hand falls on my shoulder.

“That was cool what you did back there.”

It’s her. I don’t have to turn, I can already recognize her voice. The music fades the further I walk from the bar, replaced by the patter of rain from the eaves, but even that can’t drown her out.

I shrug it off. Nobody touches Vriska Serket. “Na’ah. She was bein’ a dipshit, and I was gonna fight her. Happens.”

“You were about to get your ass beat for me.” As she catches up to me, I slow, and she holds her umbrella over my head before shrinking under it herself. She’s close, now, face less than a foot away from mine, backlit by the LED haze of the street lamps.

“I was not!” I bristle. “I had that situation under control.”

“She almost had you up over the bar. Hell, I could smell your sweat.”

I turn my ratty milsurp jacket up around my neck, trying to ignore the pinpricks at the base of my skull vying to be felt among the rain still creeping down from my hair.

“It’s alright!”, she insists. “It was cute, both the sweat, and what you were trying to do. I appreciate it, really.”

I turn away again, scowling. I’m still sure I’m being mocked. "So... why'd you chase me down? Why even leave?"

"You think I'd hang around after that? She tried to apologize to me, can you believe it? Contrition doesn't really suit her."

" _Tch._ No, it really doesn't. S'why she and I didn't date for long."

"No shit?"

I shrug. "It's a small town."

"...Seattle?"

"Seattle's lesbian bars, yeah."

"No shit," she murmurs. I lean in, straining to hear her over the drumming of raindrops against her umbrella. She cups a hand to give a conspiratorial whisper. "It's alright, I didn't pay for my drink, either."

"Good for you, tall girl. Between that and telling her off, I clearly misjudged you."

"It's the principle of it. Y’wanna hear the most frustrating thing? The part that _really_ bugged me was that she didn't even use the right fucking pronouns for me. It's like, 'I'm a they,’ goddammit. The objectification's just par for the course, but she could at least do me _that_ courtesy, right?"

Oh.

"Yeah, sure. Well, good for you, then, tall person." I rub the stubble of my undercut just under my low ponytail, the triangular patch that always tangled and yanked before I shaved it. Then I take a step back, making as if to leave, but they follow, giving the umbrella an idle quarter-turn. Rivulets spatter and droplets fling.

"Y'know, I actually liked what she said about my ass?"

"She's right. It’s a nice ass." There’s a tug in the back of my mind telling me that if I try to escape now, I’ll miss out on something important, so I stop.

They titter, then full-on fucking _giggle._ Eyes open, mouth uncovered, laughing. Despite myself, I smile a little. They jog their head playfully. "Damn right I do. Doing anything, later?"

I give them a side-eye. "...It is 'later'."

"Doing anything now, then?"

"I’d pretend otherwise, but it turns out that my drinking schedule just got freed up, actually."

"You wanna go someplace?"

Huh, they sound… genuinely excited about that. I gesture toward my car, alone in the lot.

\--

They hold my chin between their hands, leaned over the center console of my car, and kiss me, tongue exploring between my lips. Their smile spreads across my mouth. After a playful, lingering bite, they sigh warmly.

All I asked was where they wanted to go. That reply certainly does gives me the thrust of their intention, though.

They frown. “Sorry, was that alright?”

“...Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I always forget to ask.” They blink. In the better light, I can see the sharp sting of liquid eyeliner that traces their huge eyes, watching me through black horn-rimmed glasses. Their round, cherubic cheeks are red from sudden exhortation, and along with the sweeping bangs and thick eyebrows their face gives the impression of a forest animal’s, lost in wonderment. Front teeth prod from prominent cupid’s bow. They smile. “I’m Jade, by the way. Harley.”

This close, I can tell that they smell much sweeter than my first impression, with hints of coconut and sandalwood mingling among leather and the slight tang of salt. That part might be me. “Uh. Vriska.”

“Nice to meet you.” They kiss me again, and as they run their fingers along my cheek something rubs against my jaw, like soft ridges.

I notice them as their fingers pull away. They’ve tied colorful pieces of twine around each, and all together they number in the dozens, in innumerable clashing hues. I can't break my gaze, not just from all those tiny, intricate knots adorning every one of their soft-looking knuckles- I reach out a hand, and they slow, letting me take theirs. My thumb traces the outlines of each of their oval nails, including the two which they’ve trimmed short, filed blunt, and painted the deep emerald green of their eyes rather than the black of all the rest. Middle and ring, left hand.

No matter how much I tell myself that this feeling-- the warmth in my chest, blooming from aorta to carotid-- is just what it feels like to be pursued, to be wanted, I know that’s not the only thing stewing just under the surface of my thoughts.

Before I can fret over how my face must look, my mouth blurts whatever unfiltered thought bubbles up.

"I don't take milk in my coffee because I think people would laugh at me for it. So I lie and tell them I hate coffee so they won't make me drink it black."

They give me an odd look. Something in my brain yells that it must be derision written on their face, but the need has dug deeply enough now that I just keep talking.

"I drive ten over the limit any time I can get away with it, because my car's old and shitty enough that cops think I won't have ticket money."

They raise an amused eyebrow, but say nothing. Why aren’t they saying anything!?

"The only reason I use an actual ID to get into the bar is because it doesn’t even make me feel old anymore. I snuck in for years after I was legal, and it lost its edge."

They nod. They seem to really be hearing what I'm saying, despite the dreamlike fog descending over my mind. It's like they’ve got a magic lasso around me-- like... who was that comic book hero- Miss Marvel- Power Girl- no- fuck- doesn't matter--

The two trains of thought collide before I can catch up with either, and unblinkingly I mutter another question. "Are you any good with rope? ‘Cuz it’s been a shitty enough night that what I _really_ want is for you to come back to my place and tie me up."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. The realization hits me in the throat first, finally carving through the haze coating my thoughts, and suddenly I can't swallow because I’ve just noticed that my mouth is very very dry and I’ve only had the one drink and I am, at this moment, terrifyingly, completely sober. I can feel the blood draining from my face.

Noooooooo. No no I didn't just say that. _Nobody_ touches Vr- I've never done anything like that before, so why would I- I've never even let myself think about somebody else doing it _to_ me, except in the thick of some time mano-a-mano with a laptop in a darkened room, so why did I--

The visible ridge of their collarbone rises and falls in that tight sweater, and I can see them just… watching me, soft silhouette moving as they breathe. What are they thinking? Are they judging me for clearly being such a weakling that I don’t even have somebody for... that? For succumbing to this dumb fixation in the first place?

Fuck, I turn back towards the steering wheel in a futile bid to not be stared at, because I'm absolutely burning up now, blush spreading through my cheeks as I screw up my mouth even knowing there’s no way to play this cool. Nobody’s ever looked at me like that before. Normally I get to be the cool one, not the blushing little femme dropping panties for her wiles. Do I pretend that I’m trying to push them away? They’d never buy that-- do I just lean into it and make them think I’m a complete creep?

I can’t math it out. My brain is completely rebelling against me, because in the microseconds between the thick breaths awaiting their possible reply my thoughts swim with images, flashes of myself in strappado, splayed across a bed, napping in hogtie. And in every scenario, them draped across me, as if I were some kind of…

I expect them to laugh at me. Or to balk, or stutter, or to throw up their shapely hands in mortification, or tell me to fuck off. But they just blink, knitting their fingers together atop crossed legs.

"Yeah, okay," they say with a shrug. "Sounds like fun.”

Then they smile. Oh god.

Their words land like a fist to the solar plexus, and I pinch my mouth shut so they can't see the air evacuate my lungs. Oh, _god._

We're really doing this, huh.

Oh god I really need them to touch me.

Some impenetrable wall you turned out to be, Vriska fucking Serket. Some stone butch.

I let my stomach drop, forcing my chest full with another breath, then let it out through my teeth. Okay, let's do it. I roll my shoulders, willing my nervous system to unhaze itself, and unclench my whole body.

Jade’s still looking at me, though. “You’re... good to drive, right?”

“Yyyeah, I had one drink over the course of two hours. I’m worryingly sober right now.”

“I can tell as much just by the look on your face. Are you sure about this?”

Yeah, I am.

When I catch my breath, I say as much, and start the car.

\--

My foot bounces against the clutch, trying to work off the cocktail of creeping arousal, excess adrenaline, and heady pre-regret still stirring in my prefrontal cortex. It courses down through my chest as I grapple with what I've already done tonight, and what I'm about to do.

In the seconds spent waiting for red lights to turn green, I sneak little glances at them in the passenger seat as they bob their head to whatever song is on the radio. It's got a good groove to it, great polyrhythms or whatever, but I don't care. I don't even know who it's by. Miike Snow or Purity Ring or somebody. Pretty sure it’s Miike Snow. Whatever.

The streetlights cast their fleeting glow as we roll beneath them, dim and yellowish. I watch the licks and waves of their hair shift with unabated movement, not nervous or fidgety or even excited nearly as much as just... being, and focusing on every single lungful of air. But as the song ends, I can’t help but fill the silence with the words itching at me, burning up my brainstem.

“So, what do you get out of this?”

Jade hums. “I love it when somebody gives me their full attention. I find it really sexy when they do what I tell them to, because they want to, and it brings them joy.”

“A true philanthropist, huh.”

They laugh. “Yeah, I’m a helper.”

A beat.

"What are you... hoping for, from me?" Jade’s voice is soft.

"Dunno."

"Well, it seems like you must have _some_ thing in mind."

I pause, suddenly short of breath again. Even if I did have an answer to that, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell them.

But they chuckle, hands planting in the ruff of their skirt between their thighs. "Alright, suit yourself. But then you're not exactly gonna get what you want if you can't tell me, so it'll probably be pretty boring."

"Ugh. Fine. Do you do suspension stuff?"

They give me an unreadable look. It's a guarded glance, but I can feel it linger against my skin, like I've fucked up in a game of chess but don't even know it yet. Or even that I was playing. I hate this feeling more than anything else I’ve ever felt.

"Do you... have a rig set up?"

"How hard can it be?"

"To sink an eyebolt into a ceiling joist, or to set up a freestanding beam?"

"...What?"

"No. The answer's that I don’t, not with somebody I've just met, whose experience level I don't know, who I don't have rapport with." They say this with the blasé tone of somebody describing the inadequate diligence of their tax accountant. They relax into the seat and rest their head to watch the snowdrifts pass by. "For all I know, this is your first time."

"Oh, and you've got plenty of experience, then?” I spit back. ”I get the impression you're pretty used to fielding offers like this."

They pause, and purse their lips. "What're you hoping I'll say? 'Oh, yeah, I spent a childhood cattle-ranching and taming wild horses, so I can break a filly with only a lasso and a stern gaze?' Because it’s not like that. I've just had some practice, that's all."

I resist the urge to cross my legs at the image. Yeah, I wish they _had_ said that. I swat the thought away.

Instead, I say nothing, grip tight against the wheel as I turn onto my street.


	4. This Is Where The Sex Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You found it!

"Well, here we are." We've made our way up to my second-floor apartment, and in the process of slinging my jacket over the back of the couch I give my guest the grand tour: living room, bathroom just across it; kitchen island to your right, fridge next to the stove, bedroom just past that. "I'd say make yourself at home, but, y'know, don't."

They throw their coat over mine, but I'm not exactly waiting for some effusive reaction to the warm welcome, so I kick my shoes off, trudge to the sink in the kitchenette, and chug a glass of water. But when their footsteps stop, I turn. Their hands are on their hips, just inside the bedroom door. "Far be it from me to criticize your level of knowledge, but do you want to, maybe... let somebody know that you have a guest, or get them to check in with you later, so you don't get, like, robbed?"

Love to get lectured by a hookup. I sigh, hunching my shoulders. "Why would I give a shit? You think you're gonna overpower me, is that it? This is my place, anyway."

"You... did ask me to tie you up. Is this not a precaution you're used to?"

My eyes roll back into their sockets. "Sure."

I pick a number at random out of my phone's recent texts. Yeah, Kanaya’ll do it, and will poke fun at me only lightly over a concern as gooberish as safety. Plus, giving her some salaciously vague details will make her gossip to Rose about it, and I bet that’ll steam her good. A nice perk.

I hit the dial button. She picks up after the first ring, but I cut her off before she can even ask why the fuck I'm calling.

I'm taking somebody home to do something inadvisable, I say. Call me in, like, twoish hours? And if I don't pick up, call the cops. Alrighty, she says, and asks what their name is. Y'know, in case she needs to get the bar to identify them in surveillance footage on account of finding my murdered corpse tomorrow morning. They said their name's Jade, I say. She grins so hard at this that I can hear it over the fucking phone. What, didn't wait around for Terezi?, she says. Didn't end up taking her home? No, I didn't, I say, and tell her to shut up. I say if you want to know more, Rose was there, she can fill you in if you ask. Then I say good night.

“So.” They point to the bed. "Mind if I...?"

I follow them into the bedroom, and they sit down. They cross their legs, bouncing to feel the boxspring give and resist underneath their hindquarters, then uncross them again. Their tail sways in languid waves against the bedspread. "You’ve never done this before, have you?”

There’s that accusatory feeling again, like ice running through my veins. “Sure I have. I’ve brought people home from bars tons of times.”

“No-- it’s clearly your first time trying bondage.” Open palms extend toward me before I can even wince, or shrink, or snarl. “But that’s okay! We can work with that.”

“How? What if I don't know what I want? That's your job, to tell me, right?”

“Mmm, not really, no. It’s probably best to ease into that sort of thing, so I’d like it if you told me what you were comfortable with.”

“Well, I don’t fuckin’ know.” Something burbles up from my stomach, a notion both unutterable and undeniable, and I can’t tamp down the derisive snort that it brings. I can’t just do that! I can’t just tell them what makes me uncomfortable, because they’ll laugh at me and leave. Which, they might anyway.

Everyone leaves.

I fold my arms over each other, trying to turn away again, but Jade stands with another creak from the bed, keeping themselves in view. “You’re cute, you know that? I don’t mind this recalcitrance shtick, because you’re clearly very into this idea, and you’re giving good verbal consent, and a little pushback never hurt me much. But I need you to open yourself up a little bit. You have to make the effort, or this won’t work.”

I perform indignation, shooting a burning glare, hoping desperately that it’ll manage to smother the pang of incisive guilt evoked by their admonition, sharp between my eyebrows. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

I expect an apology, a shrinking back. But Jade merely opens their arms, shrugs. “Well, it’ll take some of the stress out of this, because I can tell you’re just waiting for something to go wrong. But more importantly, I can see how much, through all your little complaints and growls and shoving, you need somebody to reach out, to step inside your bubble.”

Ugh.

I hate this. It’s not just the flattering lie that they find me attractive, I hate how right they are-- it _is_ impossible for me to reach out, to beg for the touch my entire body craves.

How much of my life is consumed by fighting off that craving?

That flicker of self-loathing from the bar? It’s back. But it’s honed, now, refined to a point. I hate that I _need_ this. Even worse, despite everything, all it takes is one person seeing right through me to prove to both of us that it’s the only thing I want. To prove that I don’t hate the desire to be touched, vulnerated, loved. I hate the me who can’t reach out.

Because that Vriska is terrified of being known.

But they saw it. Instantly, they knew, and offered me a change, if I decided to take it. And this has to be the first step, and they’re right here, and I’ve already asked, so...

What do I have to lose?

I nod. “You’re right.”

“Tell you what: you seemed to enjoy it when I kissed you earlier. So maybe we start with more of that. Then my guess is you’ll be more comfortable if we try a couple things rather than talking about it?” Their hands are clasped behind them, and their head tilts. Ears flop.

“Go ahead, I’m all... never mind.”

They edge closer, and I close my eyes. I can already feel my shoulders start to hitch, anticipating their hands as they settle on my collarbones, thumbs stroking the sides of my neck.

“Take a deep breath. Put your arms down, let your head move a little. Relax your jaw.” Fingers find taut muscles, gently urging them to give up their alarm. “You’re constantly clenching up-- right here-- and it’s no wonder that you stoop over, because I bet that hurts.” With each lateral ripple, they increase the pressure of their grip.

It _burns_. The last time some bar hookup touched me like this, I slapped her hand away and rasped a reproachful grunt, something like _I do the touching_.

But this-- I-- agh. It _should_ be unfathomable, I _should_ push them off just the same way, but...

Whatever they’re doing, for all that it feels like being smacked with a meat tenderizer and forces me to suppress a rising grumble of pain, it’s working, melting its way through years of unconscious tension. The flame in my backstrap already cools with the sensation of a floodgate smashed, of sudden relief from the pent-up knives digging into my trapezii. My arms drop.

When I open my eyes, they bring their hands to my chin again, and tilt it up to deliver another ponderous kiss between my lips. “Thank you. Let’s start with you taking your top off? Is that okay?”

My thumb finds the hem of my loose shirt, dragging it up. This is a motion I’ve practiced enough times to perfect its suave arc, and I’m happy to oblige.

Jade braces my now-bare shoulders, and kisses me again.

Stripped to only my bra and jeans, I breathe. My chest rises and falls, and all I can hear is the pronounced drum of my heartbeat. Their eyes are so close to me now, surely they can see it too, surely they can feel it.

I put a thumb under one brastrap. “Want me to...?”

Their smile looms. “Well, I’m gonna tie up your hands, and then you wouldn’t be able to remove it. So yes.”

My heartrate spikes again, and I swallow. For all my vigilance, I can’t hear even the slightest edge of mockery in their words. “Mm.” I slip it off, popping the hooks with two fingers.

“Good.” Their cadence grows slower with each command, tone sweeter and gentler. They roll their gaze down my front, then back up again, and my first impulse is to fold my shoulders in, to hunch forward and hide myself. But they aren’t leering, merely exploring; their hands move along my sides, now, pulling me into a slow-developing hug, until their sweater presses into my bare stomach right at the hem of their skirt. I force my arms to relax again.

They sway, gently, moving my body with the lulling ebb of their own. I don’t resist. Their voice towers over me, tender, deliberate. “Now, if I do anything you don’t like, or tell you to do anything you don’t want to do, you can just say ‘red light’, and it’s gone. You’ve got a stop button you can use at any time.”

I press my modest chest against their body, interlocking my lips with theirs, inviting them in. Their tongue fills my mouth, and with it, the sweet lingering of vanilla, lemon, blackberry, the last wisps of bourbon. I know I have a choice, but I can’t help following the hypnotic thread of their every word, tugging at me to follow each instruction. “Anything?”

“Anything at all. No ‘must’s, no ‘have to’s; you have the final say in everything you do. It’s the assent that’s sexy, right?” Their face draws even with mine, their eyes half-closed, smile hiding in the curl of their cheeks. Then they slide closer, nose pressing into the curve of my own, resting at its wing. They’re incredibly warm. “If you’re not sure about anything, or want something to change, but not stop, that’s a ‘yellow light’, okay? Just say yellow, and we can pause, or talk about it.”

“Yellow means pause,“ I repeat. I feel the limbs of my vision start to recede, but not with numbness or exhaustion or even strictly arousal. Instead, their voice crowds out distractions, and I let myself be lulled by it, drawn in, permit it to dismantle the part of me that’s always on edge, that jumps with every sound or twists up every joke I hear to be at my expense.

Their hands slide from my hips, to my forearms, and gather them behind me. I make sure my shoulders are rolled back again, and find myself cracking into a smile.

“Is this fine?”, they ask.

“Green light.”

“See, you guessed the third part. Green means you like it.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, I like it.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

\--

“Make sure your wrists are comfortable, first.”

I stand in the middle of the floor, shirtless. In the full-length mirror propped against the dresser, my profile is visible, all angular limbs, sharp features, and low-cut denim. But the glint in my own eyes arrests me.

I can't deny it anymore, can I? I've never seen so much exhilaration written into the blushing of my cheeks, and with my arms pulled back I watch the filling and fallowing of my ribcage somehow hold my heart at bay from falling out the tenth-story window that, within an hour of meeting, Jade has effortlessly carved into my chest.

Jade holds me steady, watching my reflection over a shoulder. The barest curl of satisfaction creeps into a corner of their mouth, and they regard our combined visage. "Like what you see?"

They've wrapped broad cuffs of rope around my forearms, coiled five or six times to spread the pressure out, and spun the remainder in a spool between, both to bring them together and pad them apart just behind my tailbone. I can’t move my hands in the slightest, save to curl a finger or two over the crest of my hips. That I expected, but not the delicate softness, the space in which to roll my wrists... or struggle. I force myself to breathe out, and in again. "Yeah. I... I like it."

"Shoulders not strained?"

I flex them back, and forward. A shake of the head. "Just gettin' used to it."

“Good. Lemme know if it gets sore. Now...”

They step around me. Another appraisal? No- they face the bed, gripping me by the convenient handle installed below my shoulderblades as they move, and it forces me to stumble and twist just to stay upright. They pull me close to their body, breath hot on my neck.

“Just let go. Keep your legs together for me.”

Before I can shudder, the sole of a boot plants behind my bare heels. I lock my knees as they instruct, and all of a sudden, Jade urges me forward into a perilous lunge. My stomach somersaults, heart pounding in my ears-- but when reflex tries to slide a leg back, they block it, and I find myself cantilevered, dangling. The strength of their arms is the only thing keeping me from facefirst contact with the sheets. “ _Je_ sus-fuck!”

“Breathe. Breathe, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

It takes me a three-count to find, much less corner and catch, my breath, but it returns, and I force the wrenching in my gut to cool to a simmer.

They deepen the lean, another inch, further, until I’m suspended at a forty-five degree angle from the ground and I’m sure they hear me suck air through grit teeth.

Just as soon, I’m upright again, their lips right up against the curve of my ear once more. “See? It’s alright.” I can feel their smile against my cheek. My heart flutters a restless rhythm.

“Wh-whuh.” I find my legs beneath me again. As I flex them, Jade plants a long kiss to the base of my neck. A soft groan-- coming from me?-- and the gentle rake of their teeth against my skin sends shivers up my spine. My head rolls and bobbles, fully in their power. They step back, but I remain upright, somehow.

“Good,” they chide. “Now kneel on the bed.”

“Why...?”

“Because I told you to.”

“Okay,” I mumble, whole mind keeling. There’s _more_ in store to their devious plan? More coming, and I’ll only know what it is as it happens. The thought bathes me in precisely the right quantity of terror and excitement, cold and roiling.

Hiking an unsure knee across the bed, I almost topple, stomach only barely righting me, because _fuck_ this is hard without using your arms. But when I turn and straighten up, they’re already holding me again, body against mine. They pull me forward, off-kilter, and my ear lands between their breasts, supporting my weight.

I feel fingers coil into the curt black scruff on the back of my head, craning my neck. “Ooh. I like this,” Jade says. “It’s delightfully kinky. Wearing it out in public, _look_ at you.” Attentive nails dig through the shorn patch, leaving me breathless, without riposte.

Then their thumb finds the base of my ponytail, and in a swift motion they pluck the tie from my head, dropping great waves of hair to feather around my shoulders. I look up, canines drawn in a smirk. “Hey, what’re you doing with that?”

“Well, I’m moving around, so I need it more than you do. You really _don’t_ bottom much, do you?” They snap it over their wrist, appreciating the width of the black elastic. “Ooh, this is the good kind, too. Thick enough for my hair.” A smile creeps into the corners of their eyes. “I’m only teasing. I’ll give it back, okayyy?” Then they’ve gathered their hair, deft wristflicks turning the act of tying a functional ponytail into a shibari dance of fingers and rolling corkscrew curls.

Their fingers find the nape of my neck again, and their thumb plants in the center of my chin. It coaxes my mouth open, until my tongue barely protrudes, then rubs along it. It tastes of both our sweat, and I can feel each ridge as they press it into my mouth, aroma intensifying until it fills the back of my throat. I lean in, lapping at it up to the knuckle, practically mewling despite myself. Every breath resonates in my chest.

Their eyes shine as they grin, and I feel a jostle at the button of my jeans. They take my chin in their hand again, turning my head, appraising me, leaving behind a thin trail of my own spittle across a cheek. “You want to be a GOOD dog, don't you...?”

I have no idea what that means, but if that’s what they want me to be then I-

I nod in desperation. They read the pure desire etched into my face, and I feel the clasp loosen, just enough for a pair of fingers to slip inside my boxers. The tips of their blunted nails kiss my nethers, nestled as it is against the untrimmed hairs of my stomach and upraised with pure need.

A low growl escapes Jade’s throat. “Ooh. So excited. I think you’re about ready for this next bit, then. Still enjoying yourself?”

Hot air exudes from between my parted lips. “Green light.”

They reach past me, and I hear the muted thud of a pillow lain flat, and Jade’s hands are on my shoulders again.

"So what you're gonna do now, is sit back on those pillows with your hands behind them, making sure they’re not flexed by the bed underneath."

I nod in silence, but hesitate, taking a long blink. When I reopen my eyes, Jade is merely watching me.

“I’m here to help,” they say, with a chiding smile. “I can’t do it for you, though.”

I swallow, and let myself fall back. Gracelessly, I land on the cushion, and test my palms against the bedspread. Then I notice the ungainly splay of my legs, and I try to rein them in, but Jade catches my knee with a hand and tugs.

My bare back falls against the plush headboard, and I gasp in surprise, mouth open to maximize each vertiginous breath. Jade’s grin breaks even wider. Then they straddle me, plucking my glasses off with two fingers, then their own.

And suddenly we’re kissing, and every time I pull back to catch myself, to buy a moment among the onslaught, they run slender, ragged lines down my throat with their teeth. Each evokes a fresh groan, a little louder and a little lower than the last, and they titter and kiss me again. The last little necktease drags a guttural noise out of me, and Jade ducks closer, wrapping their arms around.

A testing thumb finds my palm. “Hand check! Still warm, still comfy?”

This is the first time anyone’s ever asked me how _my_ body feels during sex, and it catches me so off-guard that I stutter. A moment passes before I’m able to respond.

“Y-yeah. Comfy as can be, really.” I can feel the heat in my face, and they’re staring into my eyes, and I can’t help but wonder exactly what Jade thinks of how I must look, between the wild hair and the dopey grins and...

They snap me out of the thought with a long kiss to my neck, lips pressed against the spot right where it meets my collar, so I toss my head to one side, trying to blink away the fog and will my wilding bangs out of the way of my eyes. “You gonna leave big marks on me, Harley?”

They laugh. “Not if you don’t want.”

“...Green light.”

They attack with renewed glee, lips edging what will surely be a stark bruise into high throatskin, and I breathe a silent whine. The trail of their lips trends down, and they cup a breast in their hand, regarding it in a long, inward spiral with their teeth, until they hit- ah--

“Mm?”

“S-sensitive.”

Jade coos. “I bet.” Their tongue laves my nipple, slick affection coating the perking nub. They palm it, thorough massage drawing a shudder up from my tailbone and another hiss through my teeth.

My wrists flex against their bonds. If I had use of my hands right now, I’d probably shove Jade off out of instinct, but without that I’m powerlessly held to their thrall, unable to fight back the ecstasy. A playful shock of embarrassment burns in my cheeks.

Jade cranes upward, hand continuing its attention to dimpled skin, now firm between their fingers. They wrap their other arm around my back, drawing me close to them again, and I find my chin pressed to their chest, open mouth sending heat rippling over their sweater. I strain my neck, trying to put the mound between my teeth, but Jade pulls back, impish grin on their lips. “Now, now.”

Teasing fingernails dapple against my back, threatening to arch my spine more thoroughly with pleasure.

“Ooh- right there. Just dig those in like-”

Jade nods above me. Fingers tighten to a claw, resting low. “Tell me when it gets too much? Not going for blood.”

I can’t believe I don’t clam up, but my chest burns with such need that I couldn’t fathom stopping now. “Hard. I’ll say when.”

The row of points runs lightly up one side, static against my skin, still testing. Their eyes probe me for discomfort.

“Harder.”

Both hands, now. Myriad dragging spikes light up my eyelids, squeezed tight.

“Green light. _Harder._ ”

Bared nails carve ten urgent lines in sharp parallel, and the harsh bloom now envelops my mind.

I strain to speak, words coming out thick, clumsy. “Y-yellow. That’s good. Again?”

“Of course.”

The noise I make is thoroughly animal, language drowned by sparks shot up into my brain from fingernails against my skin. Jade holds my body close, presses me into them, with one hand at the nape of my neck, the other around my chest.

“Go~od,” they intone. “You’re doing very well.”

My eyes flutter open once more, watching their face above me. They flash another grin, curving down to plant a kiss on my sweat-beaded forehead, and a thumb finds the cusp of their skirt. They begin to tug it down around their hips.

“Now then,” they murmur, voice husky. They tousle the crown of my disheveled hair. “I don’t suppose you have any... toys?”

I indicate the bedtable with my chin. “Vibrator’s in the drawer. Already plugged in.”

“Suuuuuperlative.”

It's the chunky kind, all moulded white plastic, with a strong motor and one big switch. They drop the head into their palm and flick it on, grinning when they hear the rampant buzz, feel the insistent power. My stomach almost leaps out of my body.

But... they’re not moving to take my pants off? Is it for...?

Jade kneels on top of me again, having doffed their skirt into the desk chair. Tiny red stars dot the front track of their white bikini underwear, but before I can drink in more a hand twines through my scalp and draws my sight back up to their face. “Show’s up here, not down there. Doesn’t even get hard, anymore.”

“That’s sexy as hell,” I drawl.

“Yeah. Can I cum on you?”

I can feel the muscles in my chest wind around themselves in intoxicating, prurient dread, but I grit my teeth. As _hot_ as that sounds, I don’t know if I’d be able to handle cleanup in the state I’m in. “Mmn-- I’d rather you didn’t.”

Jade nods. “Okay. Eyes on me. Keep ‘em open.”

They bring themselves down to me, nose to nose. Their first shudders of need wash over me like quicksilver, gasps dredged from a deep and wordless well. Tail juddering, they bite their lower lip, and their cheeks glow deeper with each hastening inhale.

It arrests my gaze.

Eyelids pinch closed, eyeliner forming a single dark stripe at the waterline, and they bare their teeth. They rock against me with insistent rhythm. The warmth of their thighs pools into my sternum.

“Fuck,” I whisper. My insides are molten, watching them right against the brink of elemental pleasure. If it weren’t for the buzz of fear for what they’d do if I disobeyed their order to merely watch, I know I’d resist greedily, tackle them, try to take over. Luckily, I’m still restrained by their body pressing down, the ropes at my limbs, and can freely struggle and fight against those as I witness their display.

“Fuck,” they agree. Their voice is breathy and distant, a boat moments from losing itself as it crests encroaching rapids. Tension draws their face into a look of pure fervor.

They kiss me, and I hear a tissue being pulled from the dispenser. I smile, blissful, heedless of anything except for their eyes, still pursed, and their breath as it spills out of our joined lips. I drink in every heartbeat as it pulses just under their skin.

They moan into my mouth, and shoulders roll as they let their head loll back. Their last shiver wracks into their chest in time with one sharp breath, and their mouth falls wide, soundless. Ears flatten against their hair.

Then, the vibrator flips off, they drop to sit on my thighs, and they grin, every tense line in their body going slack. The gentle thump of their tail brushes against my leg, and I hear the snap of elastic as they refasten their panties. “Alright, free dog. Y’can look again.” A blissful sigh. “ _Thank_ you.”

My own breath still heaves, eyes locked on theirs. “Th-thank me? What’d I do?”

“That was hot. You’re hot, especially when you’re tied up.” They peel off their sweater and the tank top underneath with a grunt, sticky with sweat, revealing the attractive, comfortable round of their stomach. Not to mention the appreciable muscles of their abdomen.

I can’t force down the look of joy that crawls across my lips. I can’t even bring myself to disbelieve them. The thought flashes across my mind that we might be finished, though, and it sends a sour note along my tongue, at least until my eyes refocus, and Jade is still perched on top of me, on all fours.

Their eyes, half-lidded, find mine again. “Can I suck your dick?”

Normally, my signature-- my favorite move-- is to act all suave, to sink into the bed and lean against the headboard, taking a partner's head in my hand and gently guiding them into it. But that’s when I have all the power, when I’m in control. The little corner-mouth smile Jade gives when they ask makes me shiver all over again, though, and getting to just say yes... god, even with the lull in action after they come and settle back, the thought sets me aglow again in an instant.

“Okay. Green light.”

Once they’ve drawn my jeans off, Jade braces my bare hips with their elbows, lain between my legs. They gaze down against its soft surface, pert and attentive. A smirk parts sultry lips. “Ooh, already so _excited_.”

“Can y’blame me? _Fuck_.”

“Aww. Teased for long enough?” In response to their own barb, Jade bobs down, encompassing my head in their warm mouth. Careful tongue plays down my shaft, and up again, and they peek with coquettish uprolled eyes into mine. "Hands still feeling okay?" A slow stroke along the underside fills my mind with warm fuzz again.

I flex my fingers, fighting for a moment between tides of sensation to keep my eyes focused, my words in the right order. "Mmnn... yess. Quite good, actually. Warm, no tingles."

"Good." Their powerful shoulders dance, moving with the satisfied air of one whose mechanisms all tick apace. A hand crossing the bare of my torso finds a nipple again and lavishes it with attention, eliciting a pitched groan from my deepest core.

Within moments, the flame in my chest roars awake, and I’m panting once more, a shapeless beg pulling itself from the back of my throat and emitting as only noise. Jade hums against my cock, and my back arches, barely able to strain legs pinned underneath their solid biceps.

“I’m-uh-nuh--” I groan, willing my body to draw out the formless pleasures for just a few more seconds, but knowing I’ll succumb nonetheless.

“Mmhmm,” comes their smug response, mumbled through my crotch, sending another urgent buzz up my trunk. A nail flicks itself against my sensitive chest, and I can hold the dam no longer, an orgasm rattling and wracking up from my legs, through my pelvis, and up into my body.

Jade takes my member to the hilt, drinks in my groans and sighs, and waits for the final complaints and shudders of ecstasy to cease before they slow the gentle bob of their mouth and drag themselves upright again, easing me forward to begin loosing my bonds.

They toss the rope to the floor, and grin, contented noise escaping their pursed lips as they slump sidelong into my lap.

\--

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I almost let it ring through before I remember my arrangement with Kanaya.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything went fine... Did Rose tell you that? Yeah, they do. Ears, too." A lingering look to Jade, still dozing in my lap, arms sprawled over my bare thighs.

"...Yeah, they really are. Well, tell her I said... 'Better luck next time'."

I hang up, and sigh a pleased sigh, thumbing the fur on Jade’s fuzzy ears. But Jade quivers, rousing with a soft yawn. They raise their head to gaze at me, half-lidded, but instead of the postcoital snoozedoped grin I expect, the corners of their eyes crease with worry.

"Sorry about all the dog stuff, earlier, it's just..."

"It's cool. Seriously, no problems here. I was into it."

"I'm working through some stuff, right now, and I--"

"Jade, it's okay. No apologies. It was fun."

"...Okay.” A sluggish blink. “Thanks for understanding. Thank you."


	5. Postscript

When I wake in the morning, Jade's not next to me in the bed, so I kick off the rumpled covers and head out to the kitchenette to scrape together some cereal. I fish a bowl and spoon out of the sink, give both a quick rinse, and scratch my stomach.

Of course they left.

Nobody else has stayed, no matter their degree of enjoyment, the wild things I’ve shown them. Why would Jade be any different? This was probably just another night, to them.

I’m fine with this.

I'm glad they always leave, actually. I, of all people, am better off with no connections. I'm better off with no family, a few drinking 'friends,' and headaches every morning, with no progress made from any given lay to any genuine...

Genuine what? Ugh. Never mind. I sigh as I grab the box of wheaty-os or whatever the fuck from the cupboard, plus one of the less grimy glasses.

Pity I’ll never know about your big dogs, your cast irons, your sourdough starter. The way you best love to be kissed...

I’m sure they connect with people like this all the time. I bet they can tell exactly how to crack open anybody’s heart, see right through all their fears about people, then just...

No. I’m fine with this.

Something's different, though, and it pricks at the back of my mind. Maybe it's that I suddenly notice the absence of my usual splitting hangover, or some part of me can tell that there's more light in here than normal, like somebody's opened long-ignored drapes.

Then, a voice chimes out behind me. "Hey, morning."

My heart-- I note with disgust-- practically somersaults in my chest, and with effort I cross my arms, managing to suppress a lurch of surprise.

I whirl around, and they're sitting on my couch, arms over the back of it. They're wearing the same sweater as last night, showing off their cute, muscular upper arms. A box of donuts sits on the low table in front of them, and they bump it toward me with one foot.

"I got us some breakfast. You should lock your door."

I shake my head, mote of a smile infecting my attempt at a grimace. "Oh, you are not getting laid once and then trying to move the fuck in here. Breakfast or no."

"Who said anything about moving in? I thought you might be ready for round two."

My heart leaps in my throat.

"...Yeah, alright." I shrug, and pull the orange juice from the fridge, setting it next to the uncapped plastic jug of vodka on the counter. "Screwdriver?"


End file.
